


Over Dinner

by Sadbhyl



Series: Teach Us Things Worth Knowing [4]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling, Sherlock (TV)
Genre: First Meetings, Gen, Yeah he's always like that
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-15
Updated: 2013-08-15
Packaged: 2017-12-23 14:18:45
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 878
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/927502
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sadbhyl/pseuds/Sadbhyl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock finds the first staff dinner tedious in the extreme.  But why does the new Defense teacher keep looking at him?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Over Dinner

**Author's Note:**

> Yes, yes, some of it's familiar. I can't do it ALL from scratch!

The new Defense teacher was watching him.

It was about the only thing of interest at this tedious meal. All the tedious chit-chat, getting to "know" each other. As if he didn't know everything he needed to about each and every one of them just by looking at them. The only reason Sherlock had come at all was that if he hadn't, he was certain McGonagall would have chucked him out on his ear. This was how the game was played. Give a little to get a little. The challenge was in seeing how little he had to give to get as much as he wanted. In this case, his presence was all he offered. Mindless conversation of where he'd gone to school, or where he'd taught before, what had he done before coming here, was beneath his time and effort. He was just greatful that once the term started, as one of the newest teachers he would be sitting at the bottom of the table and wouldn't have to talk to anyone. Sitting around the table as they were, there were entirely too many expectations to "socialize". He couldn't be bothered.

But the Defense teacher was still watching him, stealing glances as he passed food, answered questions, smiled.

Bored, Sherlock returned the scrutiny with less subtlety, staring blatantly at the man -- What was his name? Wilson? Watson? Watson -- at Watson, catching his eye every time their gaze passed until the other man pinked around the ears. He was obviously a former student, uncomfortable seated between the Charms teacher and the Astronomy teacher, both of whom had been at the school long enough to have instructed Watson. He was polite and respectful (must have been a dutiful student), never quite meeting their eyes despite enjoying their conversation. And yet the looks he threw Sherlock's way were curious, with what Sherlock would have sworn was a trace of amusement.

He never aroused amusement in anyone. At least not for long.

Finally the endless meal was over and Sherlock escaped the hall with barely a word to anyone, determined to get away before being forced into anymore pointless socialization.

Watson caught him in the entry. "You did it on purpose, didn't you?"

Sherlock paused, then turned slowly on his heel. They were alone, the others still milling about in the Great Hall. Instead of answering, he raised his eyebrows innocently.

"I heard you this afternoon," Watson insisted, and now Sherlock was certain the look he'd been getting earlier was amusement, as he could hear it in Watson's voice. "Arguing with Filch. You blew up the dungeon to get your own way, didn't you?"

"If I wanted to teach in a cave, I'd have gone to live with the giants," Sherlock sneered. 

Watson didn't seem to take it personally. "I don't blame you. I did seven years of Potions in those rooms. I'd have blown them up myself."

Sherlock tipped his head to the side, studying the man. "Come to that, why don't you have the Potions job? With your background, it would seem like a better fit."

"Nah," Watson shook his head. "I barely squeezed a E on my N.E.W.T. for Potions." He hesitated. "How do you know about my background?"

Sherlock ignored him. "And I suppose McGonagall preferred having a former Auror teaching Defense."

Watson froze, his left hand clenching. "How do you know about that?"

"Simple. I observed." He gestured to the man. "Your robes. Lime green underobe, bit of ocher staining at the hem and left wrist. Healer colors. Blood is so hard to get out of such a light color. But the top robe? Black with leather patches? That's never healer wear. Aurors wear cloaks like that, easier to mistake for a muggle trenchcoat. The patches are creased, so it's been folded and put away a long time, long enough to imprint in the supple leather. So you haven't used it for a while. Fifteen years, I'd say, judging by the style and the long disuse. Fifteen years ago when you hung up your Auror robes and became a Healer, until you were too injured to do that anymore, either. Simple."

Watson's eyes narrowed, his head tipping slightly. "How do you know I was injured?"

Beneath the tension, the man was curious. So Sherlock went on. "Saw you when I came up from the dungeon. You hold your wand at an awkward angle, like you prefer to hold it higher but can't quite get it there anymore. You passed dishes at dinner with your right hand without flinching. Undamaged, unlike your dominant hand. You haven't switched to doing wand work with your right, so it's a fairly recent injury, one which you're hoping to recover from. Man like you, wound like that, the recent...situation, it could only be a battle injury."

Watson straightened, flexing his hand again before finally glancing up at him from under his fringe. "That...was brilliant."

Sherlock hesitated. He'd expected a punch, not a compliment. "Do you think so?"

"Of course it was. Absolutely extraordinary."

Now it was Sherlock's turn to be suspicious. "That's not what people normally say."

"No? What do they normally say?"

Sherlock paused, then shrugged. "Piss off."

Watson laughed. It was a good sound.


End file.
